


Random Strangers

by Calais_Reno



Series: Random Strangers [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Don't copy to another site, Letters, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Makes Deductions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 21:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17271113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: One glance at John Watson tells him everything he needs to know. Small, plain, average. Boring.Actually, it doesn’t.But Sherlock will deduce. Eventually.





	Random Strangers

A man is knocking on my door. I know it’s a man because I heard him talking to Mrs Hudson a moment ago. They talked for less than a minute and she sent him on up. This tells me all I need to know.

“Open!” I yell, unwilling to leave my experiment.

He does. And now, here stands the man himself, smiling tentatively.

I glance up at him, and that glance tells me all I need to know.

“Client,” I say.

“Beg pardon?”

I don’t need to look at him to see that he’s puzzled.

“Someone gave you my name. Said I’d solve your missing thingy problem.” The _missing thingy_ could be any number of things, all of them boring.

He blinks, frowns a bit. “I’m John Watson,” he says.

I should say thanks for that. Names are almost impossible to deduce. The name fits him. He is small, plain, average. _Boring_.

He’s looking at me as if his name alone should tell the entire story. “Sherlock Holmes?” he prompts.

I know my own name. He, of course, knows it as well. I am not a vain man, but I am easily recognisable, and after solving several high-profile cases, many people know my name. Sometimes they even accost me to tell me they know who I am. “You’re Sherlock Holmes!” they exclaim, as if this information is a brilliant deduction.

“Yes,” I say, returning to my experiment. _Boring._

When I look up, he’s still there. Evidently there is more to deduce about him. He did not come up all those steps to show me that he knows my name.

“Yes?” I prompt.

“You sent me a letter.”

“A letter.” I do not send letters. I send texts and occasional emails.

He’s reaching into his pocket, pulling out what appears to be— a letter.

“You’re a soldier,” I deduce.

He nods, smiling. “John Watson,” he repeats.

This does not tell me everything I need to know. I will not ask questions, though. I have a reputation to uphold.

He approaches, holding the envelope. _Selling something_ , I deduce. _A sales tactic. Pretends he knows me, then explains why I need more life insurance._

I glance at the letter, see the date stamp. “This was mailed over three years ago.”

“Yes. When I was in—”

“Afghanistan,” I finish. No deduction required. The address gives it away: _Captain John H Watson, RAMC, Camp Bastion_ —

And then I remember. Rehab. The awful group sessions that were supposed to make me want to give up drugs because _today is the first day of the rest of your life_. And: _You already are what you are looking for._ And: _Don’t let the past steal your present._ And, of course: _Success is the result of small efforts, repeated day in and day out._

And the little projects. Gratitude Lists, Memory Boards, Forgiveness Collages. And the one I’ve just recalled: _write a letter to a serviceman in Afghanistan. (Or Iraq._ ) One of the staff at the rehab knew people, had a list, gave us each a name _. Pen pals,_ she said. _Just think of how it will cheer them to receive a letter!_

 _Boring. (Is this the Crimean War? Are we knitting socks next?_ ) I may have screamed these things. I hated the little projects.

I don’t remember what I wrote, but it couldn’t possibly have cheered anyone up.

Not even John Watson, who is looking expectant and a bit nervous. He wants something. Something tedious.

I surrender. “What do you want?”

“Well,” he says. He licks his lips, blinks, shifts from his right to left foot. “Right now I need to use the loo.”

When he returns from the loo, I am sitting in my chair and Mrs Hudson is serving the tea. I did not tell her to do this, and normally she refuses, reminds me that she’s _not my housekeeper_ , but John Watson has made a favourable impression on her. She beams at him as she enters with the tea tray.

“So lovely, having your pen pal visit you, Sherlock,” she says. “I’m sure he has some interesting stories to tell you, so I’ll leave the pot under the cosy to keep it warm. Let me know if you need anything else.” She closes the door, still smiling.

I motion for him to sit in the other chair. He adds a splash of milk to his tea, picks it up and blows gently on it.

_Wounded in the left shoulder. Psychosomatic limp. PTSD. Parents dead, one sibling…_

“I suppose I should tell you—” he begins.

“I will deduce,” I reply. His appearance should tell me everything I need to know.

I watch him drinking his tea. He is wearing new jeans, a size too large, rolled up into awkward cuffs. Leather shoes, also new. A check shirt, an oatmeal-coloured jumper. His jacket, dark green, looks military. An ordinary man, no doubt an ordinary problem. “You’re trying to find your brother,” I say.

“Sister,” he replies, reaching for another biscuit. “Only I know where she is—”

I hold up my hand. “I. Will. Deduce.” Questions are for amateurs. “You don’t get along. While you were overseas, she came into an inheritance.” I sigh and set my cup down, glance sadly at my experiment, which is now spoiled. “What you need is a lawyer, not a consulting detective.”

“Oh.” He looks perplexed again. Perplexity seems to be at the core of his being. “Oh, are you a detective?”

“Consulting detective,” I reply. Now _I_ am perplexed. _Why is he here?_

I carry on deducing. “You’re obviously here because of the letter.”

He smiles again. “Yes.”

“Because of what I promised you…?”

“You didn’t promise anything,” he says. “Would you like to see the letter? Perhaps you’ve forgotten what you wrote.”

I hold out my hand.

“Careful,” he says. “It’s a bit fragile.”

The letter, I note, has been handled many times. There are a few blots and smudges, but it was written on high-quality medium-weight cream paper with a fine-nibbed Montblanc Classique given to me by my brother, using Omas Sepia ink. It will be legible a hundred years from now, even if it is underwater by that time, submerged as London succumbs to Global Warming.

 

_Dear Captain Watson,_

_I am a drug addict, currently residing in_ ~~_the fifth circle of hell_ ~~ _a rehab facility. One of the many_ ~~_penances forced upon me_ ~~ _activities meant to help my recovery is writing a letter to you. I drew your name out of a box lid in group session today, an entirely random event meant to cheer you and_ ~~_waste my time_ ~~ _give me a reason to feel grateful. Connecting to a random stranger is supposed to make us feel less alone. I, however, do not mind being alone. Alone protects me._

_I do not know why a person would join the army, but then again you probably do not know why a person would use drugs. If our lives are a Venn diagram, you and I are non-intersecting circles in non-contiguous sectors of an infinite plane. We are connected only by the words on this page. I do not know what your life is like. You do not know mine._

_We both have jobs to do, meaningless though they may seem. I will pretend to empathise or show remorse or whatever else will shorten my sentence here. You will carry on protecting Queen and Country, and someday you may come home. If you are not killed, and I am not dead of an overdose, perhaps we may one day meet. Until then, I remain—_

_Sherlock Holmes, your random stranger_

 

The letter tells me everything I need to know. I hand it back to him.

He carries on smiling. “We survived,” he says, tucking it back into his pocket. “Random strangers.” He pats his pocket.

This is meant to be a joyous moment, perhaps, or at least an emotional one. I do not feel joy. What I feel is more like boredom, with a suggestion of growing impatience. This tedious little man has looked forward to this moment, however, and now expects something of me. The sooner I give it to him, the sooner he will leave.

“Yes,” I say. “Well done. Both of us. Here we are, finally meeting.”

He is beginning to tear up. “My random stranger,” he says.

“Yes. Well done,” I repeat. “Shall we carry on living, then?” I rise from my chair, hoping he will take the hint.

He takes another biscuit. “I always wondered what you would look like,” he says. “You’re taller than I expected.”

I am in a sea of perplexity, uncertain how to proceed. I sit down, study the man some more. There must be something I’m missing. _He is thin, too thin. Pale. Pain when he moves. Apprehensive. Looks like a fish out of water._ “You were in hospital. You’ve only just returned to England.”

He nods. “Got off the plane two hours ago.”

I look at the clock on the mantel. _4:23_.

“Found your website,” he adds. Which explains how he knew where I live. _(Note to self: take address off website.)_

“On the internet,” he adds, as if I might have forgotten where I left it.

“I’m… honoured,” I say, but really I’m aghast. _Did he come straight here from the airport?_ “Your sister? Have you called her?”

He nods, takes a sip of his tea, finds it cold, looks at the tea cosy with concern.

I pour him a second cup. “You’ll be staying with her, I suppose, until you get it all sorted.”

“No, she won’t have me.”

“Parents?”

“Dead.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Married somebody else.”

“So you’re—”

“Looking for a place to stay,” he finishes.

This tells me everything I need to know. He’s low on cash, no one else to turn to, looked me up because he has a letter with my signature on it. Before our tea party is over, I predict that he will have asked to borrow money (the amount to be determined by the progress of our conversation), promising to pay me back when he gets his check.

“Only tonight, if it’s all right,” he says. “A few days at most.”

“You never answered my letter,” I point out.

“No.” He sets down his cup. “I wasn’t allowed.”

 

He doesn’t ask for money, but he does stay. I permit this, not because he is my random stranger, but because I have not yet deduced him properly. This irritates me. For an ordinary man, he is annoyingly enigmatic.

In the morning, I go to make breakfast and find him on the floor, curled up in front of the fireplace, shivering under the blanket I gave him. The fire has been dead for hours. I thought I’d made it clear that he was welcome to sleep on the sofa. I even gave him a pillow. Perhaps he misunderstood.

I set out two mugs, warm the pot, steep the tea. I do not hear him get up, but when I turn around, there he is, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“May I use the loo?” he asks.

“Please,” I say. _Where else would he relieve himself?_ “I’ll find you a towel if you’d like to shower.”

His smile is brilliant. “I’d like that, yes. Thank you.”

He is, without a doubt, the most grateful guest I’ve ever had. Not that I have overnight guests often. Lestrade once, when I’d been shot and refused to go to A&E because it was just a scratch and I could put antibiotic ointment and a square of gauze on it. My home is prepared for Small Emergencies. No one else has spent the night here, but if they should, I am ready to deal with any and all Minor Injuries.

I do often receive clients in my flat. I provide them with tea, sit in my chair, and listen to them ramble. Usually I figure them out in the first couple of minutes, but the rambling seems to make them feel they’ve gotten their money’s worth. So I let them talk. They usually express their gratitude with a cheque.

My new guest is not a talker. I am not sure yet what John Watson is, but he has not asked me for anything other than a place to spend the night.

By the time he has bathed and dried himself off, smelling of my shampoo and attired in the clothing he arrived in, I have prepared breakfast. In addition to the tea, there are eggs and toast.

“I’m sorry to be so much trouble,” he says, seeing the dishes and food laid out.

“Sit,” I say. “Have something.”

He examines the offerings. “May I have an egg and a piece of toast?” He does not reach for food.

I slide a piece of buttered toast onto a plate, use a spoon to lift a poached egg beside the toast. I push the jam pot in his direction. His eyes widen with appreciation.

“Lovely,” he says. He eats slowly, enjoying each bite. When he is done, he takes a small notebook out of his pocket and writes something down. “Thank you.”

I do not pry.

In the first place, when it comes to questions, I tend to ask things that upset people, and above all other interactions, I most hate conversations that involve crying. Or yelling. My questions, when I ask them, are usually specific. There is, however, no specific question I can think of that will unravel the mystery of John Watson.

In the second place, most questions are unnecessary. I find that I can glean more from careful observation than I can from a hundred questions. People lie to themselves and (especially) to other people. Lies can be revealing, but liars are generally the least inventive of people. _Boring_. I accept this and use my eyes on John Watson. This scrutiny yields little information.

He seems a cautious person. He’s been overseas for three years, serving as a captain in the army. _RAMC_. “You’re a doctor,” I observe.

He nods. “University of London and Bart’s Hospital.” He looks longingly at the jam pot.

“More toast?”

“Oh. No, thank you.” He carries on staring at the jam. “I couldn’t.”

“Please,” I say, taking a piece for myself and sliding the other onto his plate. “No sense letting it go to waste. Have some jam.”

He looks as if he’s just been given the best Christmas present ever. He treasures the bread, enjoys the jam more than anyone has a right to enjoy jam.

The conversation lags.

Fortunately, Lestrade texts me, needing a consult on a crime scene. I doubt that it will be interesting, but feel the need to get out of the flat and away from this small, baffling, jam-loving man.

“I’m getting a cab. Is there somewhere I can drop you?”

“No, but thank you. I’ll be fine.” He licks the jam from his fingers.

I consider whether leaving him here is a good idea. I could bring him along to the crime scene, I suppose, but… “Just don’t touch anything,” I say, gesturing towards my equipment.

“Oh, I won’t,” he says.

Perhaps he will rob me blind, call a van and haul all my furniture away, sell anything of value. At least it will be interesting.

 

The crime scene is dull, telling me in a glance all I need to know. “You called me out for this?” I grumble at Lestrade. “Are your people so completely incompetent that they cannot deduce that the near-sighted man smoking a pipe killed his wife’s secret twin?”

“Near-sighted man with a pipe?”

“Tobacco ash, size eleven Armani tassel loafers, gun fired at close range.”

“But… it’s never a secret twin,” he says. “You always say that. No secret twins. Ever.”

“The exception proves the rule. What am I doing here?”

He shrugs. “I hadn’t seen you for a couple weeks. Your brother said I should keep an eye on you.”

“I don’t need a minder,” I say. Swirling my Belstaff, I huff off to find a cab.

Then I remember John Watson, alone in my flat. Checking my mobile, I see that I’ve been gone about two hours. _I’d better see what he’s up to_ , I think. _Maybe he’s left._ Oddly enough, this gives me a tiny pang of disappointment.

 

When I return to the flat, he is sitting in the same chair I left him in, staring at the empty toast plate.

“What are you doing?” Because it is time to ask a question. Nothing about this man is telling me all I need to know.

“I was going to wash the dishes, but you said not to touch anything,” he tells me. “May I wash them now?”

Either he is the most literal man in the world, or he has some kind of dominance/submission kink. Does he expect me to order him around, tell him where to sit, what to eat, when to go to the loo?

“Yes, you may wash the dishes,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean not to touch them. I just meant… I have some expensive equipment…” I trail off, watching his face for a clue.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking uncomfortable. “It was stupid of me to think that. I’ll wash them now.”

“Do you need the loo?” I ask.

He looks relieved. “Yes, please.”

 

The second night there are screams. PTSD, obviously. I google what to do in case of night terrors. First, the article advises, _get support_. A bit late for that, though I can ask him in the morning about seeing a counsellor. Second, _avoid alcohol and drugs_. No worries there. Just tea. Third, _don’t interfere_. This seems like sound advice— until I hear a crash.

I creep into the sitting room to see what is crashing. He is standing, staring at his hand, which is bleeding. The mirror is broken. He has punched the mirror, I deduce.

“John?”

He looks at me, from which I deduce that he is awake. “Oh, hello,” he says. “Sorry about the mirror.”

While I’m cleaning up his Minor Injury, he is writing in his notebook, using his left hand. _Ambidextrous._

I employ my upside-down reading skills to see what he is writing. It's a list:

  * _Eggs: 2_
  * _Bread/butter: 4_
  * _Jam: half a jar_
  * _Tea: 5 cups (6 teabags?)_
  * _Shampoo, soap, etc._
  * _Thai takeaway_
  * _Mirror: 1_
  * _Plasters, antiseptic ointment_



He’s written down every egg, piece of toast, and cup of tea since he arrived. “You’re making a list.”

He nods. “What I owe you.”

“But… you’re my guest.” _My random stranger._

“I don’t have any place to go. And I don’t like to trespass on your hospitality. I will pay you back. I just can’t say when that will be.”

“But… don’t you get checks? From the government?”

“They said it might take a while to bring me back from the dead.” He gives me a small smile. “Bureaucracy, you know.”

“You’re dead?”

“Yes,” he says. “It’s an awful bother.”

His hand has stopped bleeding. I apply ointment and plasters. “We’ll call someone tomorrow, get this straightened out.”

 

We’re out of milk in the morning and he volunteers to fetch some. I give him my chip and pin card, explain how to use it. He examines it in a way that suggests he’s been living in a bomb shelter for thirty years. I give him a list and point him to the nearest Tesco.

As soon as the door closes behind him, I ring Mycroft.

“To what do I owe the honour?” he drawls when he picks up.

“I have a soldier,” I say. “John Watson. The government thinks he’s dead, won’t send his checks.”

He snorts. “If the government thinks he’s dead, he may as well get used to the idea.”

“What do you mean? Can’t somebody just find the form, uncheck the box?”

“He’s no doubt had a memorial. He’ll have to reimburse Her Majesty’s Government for that before they can declare him not dead.”

“He has no money,” I point out. “He should be getting a pension. And if he’s been dead, the army must owe him back pay.”

“He could take out a low-interest government loan,” Mycroft suggests.

“Dead people can borrow money?”

“It’s more common that you’d think,” he says. “Though the paperwork will take several weeks.”

“Look, you need to fix this,” I say. “He’s quite alive, sleeping on my couch and eating my jam. He’s a sad little man lacking any family or friends, depending completely on the kindness of random strangers.”

There is a meaningful pause on Mycroft’s end. “I’ll look into it.”

“Soon, Mycroft.”

“John Watson, you said.”

“Captain John H Watson, RAMC.”

I hear him sigh. “Send him to a homeless shelter if you’re tired of him.”

“No.” I am surprised that I hadn’t thought of this, even more surprised that I’m finding it totally unacceptable, that I now feel responsible for this random stranger.

 

John has been gone for a while, and I consider whether I ought to begin worrying. Before I can resolve this, my phone buzzes. Lestrade.

“What now?” I ask. “Haven’t you found Size Elevens yet?”

He evades my question with a question. “You know a John Watson?”

“I do.”

“You might want to come down to lock-up, then. He’s found himself some trouble.”

“Trouble? What’s happened? Is he all right?” I seem to be asking a lot of questions today. “Has he been arrested?”

“Got in a fight with a chip and pin machine. Constable Brown was keeping an eye on the place— they were robbed last week, you know. Anyway, he goes to help, and the little fellow freaks out, starts hitting him and screaming in Pashto. For a small bloke, he’s a bull pup. Took three constables to subdue him.”

When I arrive, Lestrade takes me down to the cell where they’re holding him. I don’t hear any screaming, which is a good thing.

“Quieted right down as soon as we locked him up,” he says.

John is alone in the cell, sitting on the floor and reading my letter. He is smiling.

“Hello, John,” I say.

He looks up, surprised, then folds the letter and tucks it in his pocket. “Hello, Sherlock. I’m sorry about the milk.”

Lestrade opens the door and I walk inside, exercising caution in case he begins screaming and hitting again. He looks calm, however.

“I can take you home, if you’re ready,” I say. “They’re dismissing the charges.” _PTSD,_ I told Lestrade.

He leans his head on his knees, closing his eyes. “It’s nice in here.”

And finally, _finally_ I see everything I need to see, and it tells me all I need to know.

“You feel safe here,” I say, sitting down beside him. “How long were you a prisoner?”

“About three years,” he says. “I lost count after a while. I had just received your letter when they captured me.”

“You were wounded.” _And tortured,_ I think. That will be another conversation, though.

He nods. “But they took care of me.” He raises his head and opens his eyes. “They let me keep your letter. I used to read it, imagining what you looked like, what we would say when we finally met. I thought I might die for a while, after I was shot, but I knew you wouldn’t die of an overdose. When I was better, I asked if I could write you a letter so you would know I got yours, but they said no.”

“How did you know I wouldn’t die?”

“Because I knew you. After I’d read your letter so many times, I could hear your voice.” He closes his eyes again, smiling. “You didn’t sound like a man who would give up. So I didn’t give up either.”

“John,” I say. My voice sounds odd, and I deduce that I am crying. “Will you come home now?”

“I don’t have a home,” he says. “My sister took all the money when our mother died. It’s gone, nothing left for me. My girlfriend got married to a bloke named David. Can’t blame her for that. I was dead. And I’m still dead.”

“That will soon be fixed.” Mycroft has arrived. “You will have your first check by the end of this week, Captain Watson.”

“And he won’t be paying back any monies spent on monuments,” I say, giving my brother a meaningful look. “His service has earned him at least that.”

Mycroft nods. “You are no longer dead, Dr Watson. The British government hereby declares you alive. And a hero.”

He is looking at me. _Sadness, resignation, fear._ “I’m not really a hero. All I did was live.” He shakes his head. “But I don’t know how to live here anymore. Too much has changed. I have no home.”

Silence settles between us, like a fine dust. I see days of isolation, weeks and months of waiting. And I know what to do.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking,” I say. “And sometimes don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each another.”

He purses his lips, thinking. “I like the violin. And not talking— I’m used to that.” He frowns. “But I have nightmares. I broke your mirror.”

“Mirrors are easily replaced.”

“I’m a stranger to you. You don’t know anything about me.”

“I will deduce,” I say. “Or I’ll ask. And you can tell me as much or as little as you like.”

He smiles. “I’m glad you wrote to me. Your letter kept me alive.”

I put my hand in his. “John Watson, I’m glad we finally met. And now, we are no longer random strangers.”

“What are we, then?”

I stand, pulling him to his feet. “That remains to be seen. I have a good feeling about it, though. Let’s go home. We’ll stop and get the milk on the way. And more jam.”

“Delighted,” he says. He looks as if he’s finally, truly glad to be home.


End file.
